


Strange Flesh and All That

by FortinbrasFTW



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Awkward Conversations, Bottom Crowley, First Time, Glasses, M/M, Movie Night, Top Aziraphale, drunk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-21
Updated: 2014-03-21
Packaged: 2018-01-16 10:40:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1344454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FortinbrasFTW/pseuds/FortinbrasFTW
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Crowley laughs. He can’t help it. And the wine is </i>very<i> good.</i><br/><i>“What’s funny?” Aziraphale asks.</i><br/><i>“Are you joking?” Crowley tilts his head to look at him over his glasses. “No, nothing at all, this is all perfectly normal. Very dull conversation really.”</i><br/><i>Aziraphale smiles back. “What’s funnier, dear boy? That I’ve considered it or that you haven’t?”</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Strange Flesh and All That

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [macrops](http://macrops.tumblr.com/) for the great cover art!  
> _____  
> 

“You had to put it next to the literature, didn’t you.” Aziraphale frowns at the impossibly slick sliver of plasma screen sitting neatly in the bookcase across from them.

Crowley leans back into the obliging leather of the sofa, dragging the cork free from the Cune Rioja Imperial Gran Reserva 2004. Spanish wasn’t normally a first choice, but they’d had a case of these beauties stashed in one of the bookshop’s broom closets and it was finally aged in. They might even manage to draw the rest of the supply out through the next decade of its peak if they exercised uncommon self-restraint. That was one of the pluses to the sky still being in one piece: plenty of decades to waste, and it seemed that the boredom of humans would continue to produce wonders through all of them. Sushi had been a revelation, but the 21st century appeared determined to beat out any other when it came to culinary invention, liquid Nitrogen for one thing, and somehow tapas became more fascinating each month, but tonight they’d settled for what was quickly becoming a Tuesday regular. The place five doors down from the bookshop did a lamb flatbread with just enough zing in the sauce they’d been incapable of resisting.

“Please,” Crowley says, eyeing the TV, “I should have had one a quarter of a century ago. And I know judgement is rather hard habit to break, but you might as well give it a try. Remember the hell the King James was supposed to unleash?”

“Allow me to make some distinction between the Word of God and _'WestEnders'_.”

“It’s _EastEnders_ you complete relic,” Crowley can’t help grinning. “The alliteration wasn’t a bit of a tip off?”

Aziraphale ignores him in a way that’s getting unsettlingly easy for him, heading for the flatbread instead.

Crowley’s left the windows of the flat just open enough that a breeze could push into the room, full of the smell of the city and the decaying crisp that always comes along with autumn. He’s always like autumn. There is a tension to it he can’t seem to avoid feeling in the air, something about the lines blurring and harvest moons and other nonsense he really should know better than to let into his system. But fall was nice all on its own wasn’t it? Cool, fresh, everything settling into itself for the long sleep.

Although tonight isn’t exactly following the trend. It was one of those pernicious early autumn nights that summer reached out to desperately, getting its fingers around it just enough to make the evening a balmy reminder of just what you’d be missing soon enough.

He’s succumbed to it easily enough, wearing his thinner grey wool slacks and a white linen shirt, the sleeves rolled up with just enough artlessness to be fashionable. He’s even cuffed his pants a fold or two, bare feet comfortable on the smooth wood floor under him.

Aziraphale seems as always to be impervious to all seasons and any sense of fashion. Annoying, how his disregard and frumpy jumpers were actually becoming rather trendy these days. This one wasn’t actually all the horrible, a sort of lighter oatmeal woolen blend, perhaps a bit too matching with the khakis he’s wearing. He’s left his sneakers by the door, socked toes tapping idly on the floor.

“How’s the Rioja?” He asks as Crowley takes a slow sip.

“Mmm,” he hums back, letting the wine linger on his tongue. “Chewy. With just a shadow of tobacco.”

“Lovely,” Aziraphale sighs, filling up his own glass.

Crowley snaps once, flicking the telly into life.

“Oh dear, must we?” Aziraphale groans.

“We already did your thing,” Crowley insists.

“You liked that as much as I did,” he says. “Those Tibetan musical scores were treasures.”

They really had been, all flowing shapes and easing lines. He’s always thought western languages truly missed the boat on creating new form out of script by always favoring order above artistry. But he wasn’t giving the angel the higher ground that easily. “You always overestimate my enjoyment of mildew.”

“Smelled it through the plexiglass could you?” Aziraphale teases.

Crowley rolls his eyes, taking another sip to avoid smiling. “Fair’s fair.”

“Fine,” he concedes, “but no _‘reality’_ please.”

“Not a problem. Here,” Crowley tosses the remote into his lap, “I’ll even let you drive.”

Aziraphale frowns down at the small slim thing, wrapping his fingers around it gingerly. “So I what, change the channels?” He pushes his glasses a little higher up his nose.

“That’s a bit archaic by now, it’s a more on-demand system that’s vogue. Netflix, Hulu; it’s all select and watch.”

“Still ‘TV’?” Aziraphale asks, pronouncing the letters like something in novel language.

“Apple TV, actually,” Crowley corrects.

Aziraphale huffs. “Bit too much salt in the wound there don’t you think?”

“Please, I wish I was that clever. But I suppose you never know, whole new world, whole new bite.”

Aziraphale’s fiddling with the buttons, navigating around the menus, looking at the screen with a face that’s likely fairly close to the one Crowley gets staring into those tomes of his.

“Offer any guidance?” He asks.

Crowley gets his own slice of flatbread, careful to get a napkin between his hand and the slight shine of grease. “Netflix.”

“The abuse these people put language to,” Aziraphale chides.

“They do tend to get bored with established systems.”

“Don’t hog it,” Aziraphale says, knocking his glass against the wine bottle in Crowley’s hands, eyes still on the television.

Crowley fills it again. “Relax. There’s six bottles in the kitchen.”

Aziraphale’s flicking helplessly down the listings, small commercially-pleasing “clicks” sounding from the television. His hair’s getting in his eyes just a tad but he pushes it back easily enough. He’s been letting it get a little longer lately, and it obnoxiously fell just right every time. Angelic hair, it always seemed to manage itself beautiful, one of those lingering traits from upstairs that really paid off.

Crowley sighs, finally taking pity. “How about just a film? What are you up for?”

“Something pleasant.”

“Romance?” He suggests.

“ _‘It Happened One Night’_?” Aziraphale suggests instantly.

“We’ve seen it.”

“Only a few times.”

“Two-hundred and eighty three.”

Aziraphale smiles over his glasses. “But we love it.”

Crowley couldn’t deny it, but he’d started this, he might as well do his best to drag him out of permanent residence in 1953, even if he couldn’t quite reach the new millennium yet.

“What about this one?” Aziraphale asked. He’s actually managed to get the selector where he wants it. “ _‘The English Patient’_ , sounds interesting, looks promising.”

“No, thank you. Looks like war,” Crowley says. “And of the impossibly more useless variety. What about the one next to it?”

“ _‘Shakespeare in Love’_?” Aziraphale lets the selector slide over. “You think?”

“Sounds alright, doesn’t it? And it’s 98’ so you needed fear slipping too far into the future. Or rather the present.”

Aziraphale sighs in his general direction but pushes play all the same.

As it turns out it is alright, albeit a little historically distracting. The costumes are excellent, and the cinematography admirable, with just the right amount of comedy and a salting of despair- very much in the same vein as the works that inspired it. There’s a comfort to it as well, and an excitement that let’s the pace carry on well and even.

“Interesting take isn’t it?” Aziraphale says, leaning a little deeper into the sofa.

They’ve managed to vanquish about half of the flatbread and the second bottle of wine is sitting empty next to its remains. Crowley’s feet are tucked up under him now, as he leans heavy on his hand, propped up with an elbow on the armrest.

“Interesting,” he concedes. “Of course Tybalt and Benvolio don’t seem to be quite as distracted groping each other in the wings as I remember during the original.”

“They were all groping each other in the wings,” Aziraphale notes.

“Especially him,” Crowley gestures at the goateed man with significantly prettier eyes than the playwright he’s portraying. “What was it he used to say?”

“Increased the tension of the performance,” Aziraphale remembers instantly.

Crowley smiles into the last of his wine. “What a tosser.”

“Didn’t loose that though did they?”

“What’s that?”

“All that,” the angel waves at the screen with a fair amount of tipsy disorientation. “The ‘tension’, the passion, romance, what have you.”

“No, I suppose not,” Crowley groans managing to get to his feet, and head ( _head_ , certainly not stumble) toward the rest of the bottles in the kitchen. “But humans have always been quite good at all that ‘what have you’.”

“I suppose you would know,” Aziraphale calls back. Crowley’s apartment always maintained an open floor plan, so the kitchen wasn’t so much a kitchen as an especially shiny part of the general living space.

“What do you mean?” He glances back towards the TV and the couch. Aziraphale’s still watching the film, one arm slung along the backrest, wine swirling idly in the glass between his fingers.

“That whole seduction business, much more up your cup of tea.”

Crowley snorts, easily dragging the cork free of a new bottle. “I don’t know, seems to be quite a bit of ‘passion’ leaking down from up your way.”

“That’s different,” Aziraphale counters. “Metaphorical not tangible.”

“Well, I’ve never been one for the more tangible seductions personally.” Crowley murmurs, the neck of the wine bottle ringing gently as it taps the side of his glass and he starts to pour.

There’s a rustling from the couch. “What? Really? So you never…?”

“What? As you lot might put it, ‘known’ any individuals? No, not so much.”

“Ah,” Aziraphale notes. “I rather thought it was one of those required CV points down there.”

Crowley straightens up, at least as well as he can, rolling his glass and glancing at him over his sunglasses. Aziraphale’s leaned back over the couch, eyeing him skeptically.

“When did we start discussing my sex life?” Crowley squints.

“I suppose just now,” Aziraphale answers.

“I always imagined that kind of talk would get you sort all manner of flustered.”

Aziraphale smirks. “Doesn’t sound like there’s much to get flustered over.”

Crowley felt an unexpected surge of defensiveness. “As if you would know.”

“I certainly don’t and I most definitely didn’t suggest I would, merely surprised you’re bumbling around in the dark as well, dear boy.”

“Hey!” Crowley starts, brandishing his wine glass. “I am not ‘bumbling around in the dark,’ I’m just remaining well out of the shadowy bits.”

“And why’s that? Seems sort of interesting doesn’t it?”

“ _That_ is because I’m far more interested in subtle and far-reaching where my work is concerned, and _that_ ,” he gestures at the television where there’s a decent amount of writhing taking place, “is the very opposite of subtle and quite limited in its range of effect. Not to mention— hold on… What did you say?”

“I said it seems interesting.” Aziraphale says, turning back to the television.

Crowley stares at the back of his head which is still vexingly perfect.

“So you never… I mean, not even upstairs, before all of this?” Crowley tries.

“Look who’s ‘flustered’ now.” Aziraphale sounds like he’s smiling. “And no, not so much. Always looked a little too… combustable.”

Crowley snorts agreement. It was that for sure, not to mention the fact that there was always some strange sense of vanity in it. The angels that liked to fold energy around each other always seemed like the sort who would be most comfortable slowly flexing in front of a full length mirror for the better part of the morning.

“Are you sharing that?” Aziraphale asks without turning, wiggling his now empty glass in the air.

Crowley manages to stop staring, sorting himself out enough to make a halfway dignified return to the couch. He collapses back into it, leaning over to fill both glasses again. “Where’s all this sudden curiosity coming from?”

“Mmm,” Aziraphale hums, taking a fresh sip. “Not exactly sudden. Its always been rather intriguing, just not particularly motivating.”

Crowley laughs. He can’t help it. And the wine is _very_ good.

“What’s funny?” Aziraphale asks.

“Are you joking?” Crowley tilts his head to look at him over his glasses. “No, nothing at all, this is all perfectly normal. Very dull conversation really.”

Aziraphale smiles back. “What’s funnier, dear boy? That I’ve considered it or that you haven’t?”

Crowley holds up a hand defensively. “Now, now, I never said I hadn’t considered it.”

“Ah, I see.” Aziraphale says. He rolls his head to one side. “And when was this, exactly?”

Crowley doesn’t look back at him. He keeps his shrouded eyes on the television, wineglass resting against his lower lip. “Well, watching the world flicker in and out of existence a few times in an afternoon, I suppose it makes you think.”

Aziraphale’s still watching him quietly but Crowley doesn’t look back. After a moment the angel turns away with a sigh, leaning forward clumsily to pry and miraculously still steaming slice of flatbread off the tray.

“So?” He says after a moment, hanging the syllable questioningly.

Crowley crosses one leg over another. He has a sneaking suspicion the strange feeling in his stomach might be nerves. It’s an irritating novelty. “So what?”

“Care to give it a try?”

Crowley snorts half his wine, and just manages not to spill any on his linen. As quickly as he can he gathers himself back up, glaring over at the angel.

Aziraphale’s smiling. “Flustered?”

Crowley growls. “Shut up.”

“Is that a no?”

“No.” Crowley says. A good deal too quickly. Bugger it. And lord that’s not the right curse to toss about at a moment like this. “Isn’t this body a little too… heretical?” he suggests. “Strange flesh and all that?”

Aziraphale takes another generous sip of wine as he shrugs. “No more biblically offensive than wearing garments made from two different threads.”

“Always thought it was obscenely picky, that one.” Crowley notes. “Picker than you apparently.”

“My dear,” Aziraphale says, and suddenly Crowley can’t help but look at him. “If I’m one thing, it’s picky.”

Crowley tries to convince his brain to go back to functioning seamlessly. He should probably sober up about now, but the wine’s a halfway decent excuse at the moment for the heavy feeling on his tongue, so he doesn’t.

Part of him wants to stand up laugh it off, brush the conversation aside and continue on as if it never happened. But another part of him, an annoying tight stomached part of him, can’t seem to stop noticing how Aziraphale’s glasses have slipped down in that stupid way he never seems to pay attention to, and how his jumper is pushed up his arms just high enough to see a slight play of freckles on his forearms.

“Yes.” Crowley says finally, leaning back into the squish of the sofa.

“Yes, what, dear?” Aziraphale asks.

“We could give it a try.” Crowley says, eyes fixed on the television. “Sometime.”

“Ah,” Aziraphale says. “Right. Sometime.” He leans back to match, sipping the wine. The movie continues, somehow right back to where it was before they got distracted with this absurd conversation.

“Seems a bit of a strange thing to start,” Aziraphale says finally. “Tricky.”

“Mmm,” Crowley agrees.

Aziraphale frowns. “Would I have be naked.”

“I think it’s more traditional than obligatory,” Crowley says, doing his best to avoid blushing like a complete idiot at that idea. “Anyways, you used to wander around sans-jumpers as a general rule.”

“Naked and nude are slightly different concepts,” Aziraphale notes.

“Should I find you some fig-leaves?” Crowley suggests.

Aziraphale glares.

Crowley smiles back, the tightness in his stomach giving ground slightly. “You know what I think we need?”

“What’s that, my dear?”

Crowley empties the last of their bottle into his glass. “Two more bottles of this, and to finish watching this bloody film.”

Aziraphale smiles. “I think that we could manage.”

By the end it’s more like three bottles but Crowley’s not exactly sure he’s keeping track right. The breeze that pushes into the apartment’s gotten more seasonably cool over the past few hours. Crowley blearily thinks he should probably shut the windows, but it’s a hazy thought at best, and the cool actually feels fairly excellent. That and he’s almost sure Aziraphale isn’t cold. He’s never really cold.

“Well,” Aziraphale manages, watching the screen as the credits slip up a shot of the beach that’s steadily easing into black. “That was rather more depressing than accepted— expected, rather.”

“Mmm,” Crowley agrees. That heavy tongue thing has gotten worse. He’s almost positive if he opens his mouth to say anything he won’t be able to get halfway through a sentence without pulling his “s”’s into an absurd length.

“Didn’ think would go qu- quite so… Really was depressing.” Aziraphale frowns.

Crowley makes another noise. He hopes it sounds comforting. He’s almost completely collapsed on his side of the sofa by now, feet pulled up for warmth initially, but they escaped from under his legs around the third bottle of wine, and now his toes are close enough to Aziraphale’s khaki covered leg that he’d just have to stretch them out a bit to dive them under the fold of cloth and feel the warmth he knew was waiting there. And lord he must be drunk, because he’s suddenly wondering if Aziraphale’s ticklish.

He’s tempted to ask him but the angel suddenly stands up, wobbles, and manages to grab the empty wine bottles, heading for the kitchen. Crowley frowns at the now empty couch cushions.

Off in the kitchen he hears the wine bottles make their way clumsily into the sink. With a groan he lets his head fall back on the arm of the sofa before summoning the necessary courage to stand. He makes it about three feet before falling against the back of the sofa for a moment of support.

Aziraphale’s moving past him again, gathering up the flatbread remains. “Did you like it?”

Crowley focuses. “Pardon?”

Aziraphale’s already on his way back towards the kitchen and Crowley follows him thoughtlessly. “The movie- film. Like it?” He asks again.

“Mm,” Crowley hums, leaning heavily on the cool steel of the countertop. “Was alright. Niccce. Sssad. ’S too bad. Bloody America.”

Aziraphale isn’t looking at him. He’s apparently too busy fiddling with the plates, making sure they get into the sink, which is absurd because Crowley certainly isn’t going to wash them. Strange sometimes, the human lines that get blurred in these funny lives of theirs.

“Look, before, that was a rather ridiculous, thing to say. Foolish, really,” Aziraphale says to the sink. “You know the…”

“Fluster?” Crowley tries helpfully.

Aziraphale sighs at the plates. “It’s not that, well, I wouldn’t want you to ass -assum - think…”

Crowley frowns. His sunglasses are suddenly far too heavy and can’t seem to stay even, so he slides them off, pushing them down the steel countertop as far as he can reach.

“I su-suppose,” Aziraphale continues, “I didn’ mean to push at you or—“ he turns around.

Crowley blinks at him, head heavy where he’s got it propped up on his hand.

Aziraphale’s mouth is open but apparently it isn’t working properly either. He shuts it. Then opens it again. “Maybe I’ll just…”

Crowley reaches out suddenly, and with coordination that surprises even him, he takes Aziraphale’s glasses off his nose.

Aziraphale stares.

Crowley twists the glasses in his fingers and then with a small frown turns them around and pushes them onto his own face. A strand of dark hair falls in front of his eyes and he blows it out of the way.

He looks back up at Aziraphale, blinking through the unfamiliar lenses.“How’s it look?”

Aziraphale kisses him.

Crowley just manages to let out a short surprised noise and not fall backwards. It’s a rather awkward arrangement, what with Aziraphale leaning half his body over the counter in order to get a hand under Crowley’s chin and tilt it up to meet him. The glasses somehow stay where he’d put them but Crowley doesn’t notice. His eyes have fluttered shut.

They stay like that for a moment and then, all at once, Aziraphale lets him go, falling back to his side of the counter. Crowley stares dumbly at the now empty space in front of his face, lips still pushed slightly forward.

Aziraphale straightens again, cheeks far more pink than anyone’s cheeks have any right to be.

He clears his throat once. “Oops.”

Crowley looks at him.

For someone as drunk as he is, it’s a bit too easily to climb onto the counter and a hand around his collar. Or maybe he’s just sobered up to make sure he manages it alright.

His knees are bony and a bit painful even through his slacks on the steel of the counter, but it just takes half a second to get there, and then they’re kissing again.

He feels Aziraphale huff against him, half surprise and half something else that has Crowley’s stomach doing things he’s not entirely familiar with. Aziraphale’s hands go up in surprise at first, but Crowley thoughtlessly slips his lips open and suddenly fingers are weaving into his hair, firm and demanding. He kisses him, exactly the way he wants to, exactly the way he’s starting to realize he’s always rather wanted to.

The glasses crush uncomfortably between them as Crowley tilts his head for a better angle and he’s really going to have to get properly situated. He pulls back for a moment, sliding his knees forward so he’s sitting on the edge of the counter instead on kneeling on it. Aziraphale waits, breath shorter and closer than he’s heard it before. Crowley resists looking at him, reaching up between them and pulling the glasses off.

Aziraphale lets out a frustrated sound and then a hand is sliding up his cheek, around the back of his neck and pulling him back again. Crowley gasps into the kiss. It’s harder than he was expecting, and this time the angel’s the one to let his lips slip apart, dragging an unexpected tongue across Crowley’s lower lip, and _oh-_

Crowley surges, instantly dropping his jaw and letting him all the way in. Aziraphale makes a sound, something deep that hums against his chest and Crowley’s hands are moving without permission, sliding up either side of the angel’s face, burying deep in the curls of his blonde hair, threading through, pushing back.

It’s not perfect. Far from it. Artless, clumsy, as if they don’t fit exactly right together. But somehow that just makes Crowley push back deeper, hold onto him tighter. There’s something almost addictive in the way he kisses him. It’s as if it couldn’t matter less that it wasn’t exactly right, and he was going to kiss him until the universe understood that. And hell, maybe it is rather perfect.

With Crowley up on the counter he’s got a good couple inches on Aziraphale and he takes the advantage, tilting his head to drag his tongue along his. The angel’s hands catch around his waist suddenly, tugging him closer and Crowley’s legs have hooked around the back of Aziraphale’s legs just incase he tries to move away, but it certainly doesn’t seem like he will, not with the way he’s pushing his tongue deeper, hungrier.

Aziraphale tastes like wine. Well, they both must. Wine and a lamb and a bit of spice. But there’s something else, something sweet that Crowley’s fairly sure is just the angel. It matches the smell of his hair, and hazily Crowley thinks it might be clover, sweet but grassy and solid. Yes. Clover on a warm day out in some field that’s got a good breeze and a brilliant amount of lazy summer sun.

They stay like that for a while, snogging in the kitchen like something out of some terrible American holiday romance, the breeze from the open windows pushing lazily across the wide floor.

Finally, finally, Aziraphale pulls back. He doesn’t go far, leaning his forehead back against Crowley’s. He’s short of breathe. Or maybe that’s Crowley. Hard to be sure exactly. The angel’s flushed, eyes hanging hazy as he looks back at him.

He drags a thumb across Crowley’s cheekbone slowly. “Well.”

“Well,” Crowley breathes back. He let’s his hands slide up the angel’s back, drifting under the line of his belt without thinking. “Interesting?”

Aziraphale laughs. “Interesting.” There’s something wrong with his voice. Its got a bit more air to it than syllables.

“What do you want to, I mean…” Crowley starts awkwardly. His thumbs have found Aziraphale’s hips and that’s presenting a fresh series of sensations in the mysterious area behind his stomach that’s become unusually active in the past ten minutes. “I’ve not, I mean, I don’t actually know all that much about—”

“I think we’ll manage,” Aziraphale answers, and suddenly he’s eyeing Crowley’s neck with strange interest. He urges forward, kissing him just under his jaw and Crowley can’t help letting out a little strangled groan.

“Are you alright?” Aziraphale asks without moving. Crowley laughs instantly in surprise and he feels the angel smile against him. “There I mean, up there.”

“No,” Crowley says instantly, because he’s not alright. He needs to be able to reach more of him, all of him. He has a shockinly powerful desire to be in his lap, warm legs under his rather than this cold counter.

Aziraphale hums something that might have been understanding, and then, without warning, picks him up.

Crowley lets out a short surprised yelp, which lasts half a second before he realizes with a sharp dangerous thrill that Aziraphale has him by arse. His hands tighten and they’re kissing again.

They hit the couch blindly. Aziraphale tosses a hand out to prevent completely crashing, just managing to end up back in the yielding leather. Crowley’s in his lap already, which is just _exactly_ right. The angel’s head falls back with a gasp for breath. He’s staring up at him with a dazed stunned expression, like there’s a new color hanging around them he’d never taken the time to notice.

Crowley doesn’t think. Thinking really isn’t helping anything. And that’s what this is supposed to be isn’t it? Mortal, instant, instinctual. Stupid. At least that’s what he’s going to hold onto. So, he doesn’t think. He cants his hips, grinding his undeniable erection against the hard hot line pressing behind Aziraphale’s khakis.

Aziraphale makes a noise. A loud one. And suddenly Crowley realizes he’ll do just about anything to hear it again.

He doesn’t stop, catching a rhythm with the hips against him.

“That’s—“ Aziraphale tries, still blushing fiercely. “It’s—“

“Nice.” Crowley finishes, shocked at the sound of his own voice. It’s rough, broken, and the very opposite of collected. He didn’t know he could sound like that.

Aziraphale swallows hard, head falling back against the couch with a desperately stifled moan.

Crowley can’t help looking down, eyes wide, unavoidably staring. He rocks his hips, the rhythm rolling through them _far_ too easily. Amazing, human bodies. All these mysteries hiding just under the skin, just waiting for an excuse to flutter to the surface.

Aziraphale’s hands are on his hips, his own rising up to meet him, keeping the pace, grinding them together with feverish insistence. Crowley gasps helplessly, stuttered sounds rolling around his tongue lost and jumbled. He lets his head fall back and suddenly Aziraphale’s mouth is on his neck again and Crowley just manages to clamp down a moan.

“Have you always smelled this good?” Aziraphale manages to breathe. Crowley can’t help laughing short and rough, weaving his hands back into his hair.

Aziraphale kisses him again and again: the exposed lines of his collar bone, the taut cords of his neck, the delicate space behind his ear, the sharp cut of his jaw. Closed kisses. Chaste. And then Crowley tightens the grip in his hair and the angel’s lips fall open, wet and warm, teeth catching, tongue darting out to trace greedily, thoughtless.

Crowley’s breathe flies out of him with a whine. His hand goes uncontrollably tight in Azirphale’s hair and that just makes the angel’s thumbs on his hip bones dig in a way that catches the gasp in Crowley’s throat and twists it into a wrenched moan, which is decidedly _unfair_.

Crowley sits up firmer, catching Aziraphale’s wrists and pushing them behind his head as he urges the rest of the angel’s body back against the pillows. He obliges, falling back for him, catching his lips again easily with a short moan.

Amazing. He’s known him so long, and suddenly there’s so much _more_. He’s known his laughs, his frowns, each individual way he fiddles with silverware at a restaurant, and exactly how his fingers trace pages at all hours of the day. But now… There’s a whole new array of knowledge unfolding under his fingers, his lips, his hips. Noises he didn’t know he had hidden inside of him flood to the surface, expressions unfolding without restraint, and suddenly Crowley has a greedy urge to know every single one of them just as well as everything else. He wants to learn _this_. exactly. Perfectly. And there’s another feeling, one that never came with the other bits of familiarity.

 _His._ He wants these to be his.

He’s not exactly sure what that means, and he’s positive there’s at least five sins all caught up in that one desire, but the feeling of it twists and folds around his limbs, sinking in deep and hot, and suddenly there’s no banishing it. He kisses him deeper and lets it soak him. His. His. _His._

Crowley swallows and tries firmly to slow the pace. Their starting to fall erratic and fast and he wants this to last. He manages to wrangle his thrusts down to rolls, easing his hips back and forth and Aziraphale hums against his lips, catching one of them between his teeth and teasing it in a way that makes Crowley’s hands tighten on his wrists thoughtlessly. Crowley kisses him back, slow and deep, marveling and how the angel melts under him, tight muscles going soft and pliant.

He lets go of his wrists, sliding both hands up his neck and deep into his hair, moving his mouth from his lips to his jaw. He traces kisses, breathe hot and clammy against the angel’s skin. He drops lower, opening his mouth against his neck and dragging his tongue quick and warm across the hammering pulse he finds there.

The tightness floods back into Aziraphale’s limbs instantly, a strangled moan catching in his throat. “Crowley—” his hips kick up, control forgotten, and suddenly Crowley’s pulling back, eyes fierce on the angel’s face as his hand scrambles down, pressing hard into the tight space between them, urging against Aziraphale’s cock.

Azirphale swears.

It’s loud and careless and any possible hope Crowley might have had of being able to force this clambering heat out of his limbs, easy the tight low _need_ in his gut, steady his breathe, and step away, flies instantly right out the window.

“God -“ Azirpahale stammers. “That’s, just—“

“I know,” Crowley pants back, pressing the heel of his palm flat against him, sliding against the catch of khaki that’s already a bit going damp under his fingers.

“No,” Aziraphale swallows. “No, you don’t.”

And then it’s Crowley’s turn to swear.

Aziraphale’s hand finds him instantly, heavy and urgent, and Crowley’s slacks the way he’s sitting are far, far more obliging that Aziraphale’s. The angel can actually get half a grip on him and he drags his hand down with firm insistence.

Crowley’s eyes shudder open, jaw hanging loose and lost. It’s all he can do to keep decent pressure on the cock under _his_ fingers, but _god_ Azirphale seems suddenly drunk on the pleasure he’s capable of inflicting on him and Crowley can’t help giving into it. He sinks deeper into his lap, rolling his hips against the touch, wetting his lips once before lost sounds stagger out of him like reeling drunkards.

And _God_ what absolutely idiots they’d been. Hundreds of years, _thousands_ , and not knowing.

What was the line, “Love’s not Time’s Fool”? Well, he felt fool enough. Something this, _human_ , waiting, hiding, just a touch or a word away, needing only half a second to unlock and unfold such brilliance. So many years. But that couldn’t matter. He wouldn’t let it. They’d stumbled into something now, clumsy incompetents that they were, and he didn’t plan on stumbling out again.

Strange how that worked. Thousands of years. Crusades, kingdoms, the odd apocalypse. And then one night, some wine, flatbread, a movie, glasses, kissing, touching. Strange. But then again, so very undeniably human. He supposes it would be impossible now to deny that it was rubbing off on them.

“The way you look like this,” Aziraphale says suddenly.

Crowley realizes that his eyes are shut and eases them open again, meeting his eyes, panting against the insistent push of the angel’s hand.

Aziraphale gazes back at him, breathless, stunned. “Miraculous.”

Crowley feels something in his chest squeeze unexpectedly and he surges forward, kissing him again and trying to push everything he’s too breathless to say through that, trying weave into him each and every word he never said, everything he’s needed to say, everything he will one day find the courage to summon.

Aziraphale’s hands are in his hair, sweeping across his cheek, easing up his neck, and holding on, as if he hears it all, and refuses to pretend otherwise.

Crowley pulls back with a tight breathe. “Clothes.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale agrees. He looks ready to practically set his shirt ablaze to vanish it, but Crowley gets to him first, snatching at his jumper and shirt and dragging both over his head. The angel’s hair is a wreck, all those perfect curls jumbled and tossed. Crowley has the sneaking suspicion that the unprecedented lack of heavenly pristine probably has something to do with the way the angel’s still grinding an erection against his thigh and he can’t help feeling a guilty but powerful thrill at that thought.

Underneath all that wool and cotton Azirphale’s impossibly warm, skin soft, yielding, smooth, and Crowley’s brain goes a bit fuzzy suddenly at the feel of it under the length of his fingers, but Aziraphale doesn’t give him much time to savor. The angel blinks and all the buttons on Crowley’s shirt are open, Aziraphale’s hands instantly sliding up underneath, sending a hard shiver through Crowley’s limbs.

“Bony,” Aziraphale murmurs curiously, pushing an open kiss against his sternum.

“You’re not,” Crowley manages.

Aziraphale nips at him reproachfully. It’s all Crowley can do not to swear again.

“Trousers,” he says, swallowing a groan.

Aziraphale grumbles hungrily and suddenly those are gone too. Along with whatever was underneath.

Crowley’s cheeks heat up instantly despite himself, flush creeping down his bare chest. Aziraphale doesn’t seem to notice, leaning forward and darting his tongue against one dark nipple.

“ _Ah_ —“ Crowley stumbles, clutching at Aziraphale’s back, shoulders, arms, anything. The angel’s hand finds his cock again and wraps tight. Crowley just manages not to sob.

Aziraphale lets out a small huff of surprise against his chest at the feeling of Crowley’s bared erection in his fingers, dragging the smooth length carefully up and down through his palm.

Crowley bites his lip hard, desperate not to make a complete idiot out of himself, but his breathe is so jagged it’s lost all constancy and he can’t stop noticing the play of freckles on Aziraphale’s back with this absurdly powerful impulse to memorize them. The tight feeling low in his gut is clutching hard and hot and dragging him towards _something_ that feels dangerous and terrifying and so, so, _tempting_.

“I- I can’t,” Crowley tries. “It’s— I’m close, too close,”

Aziraphale’s staring at him like something starved. “That’s alright, it’s alright.” Crowley’s shocked at how calm he can keep his voice, even if it almost shaking.

“No,” Crowley insists, swallowing. He looks him dead in the eyes and Aziraphale slows. “There’s more. I want - I need more.”

Aziraphale swallows, mouth opening against a hurried breathe, hand loosening around his cock.

“Alright?” Crowley starts, “Is that, al— _ahh_ \--”

Impossibly slick fingers slip under him, slide against him in a tight circle. And oh— _god_ —!

“ _Fuck_ ” Crowley pants, “— Aziraphale,”

His cheeks are hot again, blushing harder than he has any right to, but his hips stutter, sink, roll against the feeling and Aziraphale groans. He shifts his weight, edging to one side so his cock presses flush against Crowley’s thigh, moving ever so slightly with each shallow jerk of Crowley’s hips.

Crowley stutters for breathe, shoving out one hand for purchase and catching it on Aziraphale’s shoulder. Aziraphale stares up at him bewitched. He lets his tongue run over his lips and eases a finger up into him.

Crowley’s eyes shoot open, a gasp punching out of his chest.

Aziraphale urges deeper, fascinated. Crowley’s hand tightens on his shoulder. His body’s doing that thing again, whispering to him in a language he can’t quite hear, but he tries to grasp at the corners of its meaning and tilts his hips slightly so Aziraphale’s finger hits one spot—

That’s it. Crowley’s lost and he’s not sure he’ll ever find his way back again. Sensation sizzles through him, sharp and greedy, and he isn’t sure but he thinks he hears a voice cry out that sounded a lot like his.

Before he can properly grip the world again Aziraphale’s adjusting, moving. He should be surprised. The angel always was a quick study when he wanted to be. Aziraphale curls his finger, adding slickness, _dragging_ across that _impossible_ spot again, and Crowley suddenly can’t hold back a cry.

His knuckles are white tight on Aziraphale’s shoulder. He’s probably hurting him, and he hates that thought, hates it so much he’s about to let go no matter what happens, but Aziraphale’s huffing out a breathe and suddenly a second finger joins the first and _strokes_ —

Crowley let’s out a strangled sob, head falling forward onto the angel’s forehead.

“Alright?” Aziraphale asks, with so much care in his voice, so much breathless concern, that it actually hurts.

“God,” Crowley stumbles, lifting himself up on shaking thighs. “ _Yes_.”

He brings himself down again. Hard.

Aziraphale curses. Again. And Crowley’s cock surges painfully at the sound of it. He feels the tip bob against Aziraphale’s stomach, wet and warm. He feels the angel’s own erection tight against his knee, and _god_ he must be desperate for _something_ , anything, but apparently it can wait because Aziraphale’s pulsing his finger again, driving into him _so exactly right._

Crowley hisses, sharp and tight, letting his hips do whatever they want and sod the rest, rolling against the angel’s fingers, slick and tight and _fucking hell—_

Aziraphale’s breathes are getting shorter, harder. His hand is so tight on Crowley’s hip it’s getting impossible to ignore. Crowley can feel the slickness his erection is dragging against his leg, the desperate tight pulses of it each time Crowley _whines_ against the feeling.

“Come on,” Crowley manages, “It’s alright, I want, it’s - just— _please_ —“

The angel doesn’t need anymore encouragement and Crowley let’s out a startled gasp as the hands suddenly leave him completely, but they’re only gone for a second. Aziraphale grips him firmly by the hips, turns him, pressing him down on his back into the leather of the couch.

Crowley gasps surprise but Aziraphale steals it, kissing him again, and this time there’s nothing close to restrained in it.

It’s messy and heavy, wet and warm, all depth and drag, teeth and tongue. Crowley arches into him, the stick of the leather an almost unnoticeable side effect. He lets his legs fall even further apart, one hand gripping tight in the angel’s hair, another sliding down his back, locking around his arse and pulling him closer.

Aziraphale’s cock sweeps across his taut, slick skin and suddenly Crowley’s taking action.

He snaps a hand between them, fingers suddenly slick and warm, wrapping them around Aziraphale’s cock and guiding the tip to his entrance.

Aziraphale groans hard and desperate, forehead resting helplessly on his chest. Crowley locks his calves behind Aziraphale’s thighs and pushes, urging the head of his cock inside him with a tight swear.

A shocked sound punches out of the angel’s chest and suddenly he’s leaning hard on his elbows, one hand tight on Crowley’s hip, pushing _impossibly, miraculously_ —

Crowley’s not sure who cries out first, or even who’s voice is who’s for that matter. The only thing that’s left for him is the feeling, the heat, the _stretch_ , and the sound of Aziraphale muttering his name, over and over, like some sort of impossibly heretical prayer.

He drags back and snaps his hips home again.

Crowley cries out instantly: thoughtless, lost. Aziraphale does it again. And again. And again.

One of his hands has weaved through Crowley’s, another’s holding his cheek, firm and strangely innocent against all the rest of it. The rhythm pushes, the pulse of it surging them together without thought, and suddenly, strangely, Crowley feels so _home_ that he can’t breathe.

“Crowley, I— it’s, _ah—_!” Azriaphale stammers, pace staggering into something erratic and frantic. The tightness low and deep inside is getting unbearable, terrifying. He’s never felt anything like it. It feels as if he’ll break in half if he doesn’t let it out and he’ll shatter to pieces if he does.

“Crowley,” the voice presses, close, softer than it should be. “Look at me.”

He does.

He looks at him. All of him. Aziraphale’s flushed cheeks, hair ruined, and eyes looking directly back at his own. Eyes his know, eyes he trusts impossibly more than anything else in the world. Crowley swallows. And he lets go.

The feeling smashes into him, brutal and impossible and so, so _good_ he can’t possibly imagine anything else.

The orgasm pulls through him, hot and electric. He feels his entire body tighten around it, surge and flex and suddenly Aziraphale’s crying out as well, a half-sob falling out of him in a broken shout against Crowley’s name and they’re in it together, pushing, pulling, clinging, until finally, _finally_ things stagger and slow.

It takes a while. Maybe more.

Crowley’s not sure how long he’s lying there before his muscles start to unclench, ease back from the pinnacle now behind them. Aziraphale lets out a shaky sigh he feels against his shoulder and with laudable effort pulls back enough to fall back onto Crowley’s chest.

Crowley’s skin’s still alive with feeling, but strangely enough as the electricity eases out immense and implausible comfort slides in to replace it.

He finds himself humming quietly, sinking deeper into the leather. With a quick thought the mess is gone from around them and Aziraphale makes a soft grateful noise against his neck.

Crowley’s hand finds its way into his hair thoughtlessly, running through it with ease and care.

“Interesting,” he mutters.

“Mm, very.” Aziraphale agrees rolling against the fold of his shoulder.

Crowley tightens an arm around his neck and sighs, breathing in that summer-clover smell deeply. He glances at the television, the Netflix menu open and waiting.

“Another movie?”

Aziraphale turns his head enough to see the screen, one hand sliding down to rest on Crowley’s hip, tracing the bone with a thumb idly. “You pick this time.”

Crowley smiles, edging the cursor through the options. He flicks on the first thing to catch his eye, and wonders idly how far they’ll make it through this one before finding something better to take up their time.


End file.
